


Nobody Does It (Half As Good As You)

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Wincestiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three boys, some champagne, and a Bond marathon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Does It (Half As Good As You)

After the third bottle of champagne, Dean appointed himself Cultural Ambassador to Fallen Angel and reached for the remote. Tuned into the Bond marathon, already in progress. They'd missed all of _From Russia With Love_ and the first ten minutes of _Goldfinger_.

"Dude," Dean whined. "I love that part with the duck."

"You're a duck," Sam countered.

"You are intoxicated," Cas rumbled.

Sam snorted and burrowed his head deeper into Cas' lap, his legs swimming across Dean's knees.

"Not drunk," Sam sighed. "Happy."

"Shut up!" Dean snapped, fumbling for the remote. "I wanna hear this."

Shirley Bassey wailed and even the speakers of Bobby's crappy no-name TV bowed in obeisance.

Everybody was quiet for a moment. Let the last notes play. Watched the scene flip to the pale undertones of 1960s Miami.

"So?" Dean said, squeezing Cas' shoulder. "What'd you think? Is that song great or what?"

"Hmm," Cas said, his fingers caught in Sam's hair, "My understanding of rhyme and meter is limited, but I do not think that 'cold finger' can rightfully be said to rhyme with 'Goldfinger.'"

Dean threw up his hands and winged the remote into the wall. "Really? _That's_ your takeaway, Cas? One of the greatest songs in movie history and you're bitching about the rhyme scheme?!"

Cas eyed him over the rim of his glass, blue gathered in the reflection of champagne gone flat.

"Yes," he said simply.

Sam laughed so hard that he drowned out Jill Masterson's voice and Connery's comeback purr.

"You suck!" Dean barked. "Both of you. I try to inject a little culture into your lives, a little classic cinema, and you two clowns just throw it right back in my face."

Sam sat up a little, still giggling. "Dude, this movie sucks. Come on. She gets covered in gold paint! It's ridiculous!"

Cas frowned and peered at the screen. "Wait, who is covered in gold paint? Does someone attempt to construct an idol?"

"Oh for--!" Dean huffed, throwing Sam's legs out his lap. "Fine. Whatever. I need some air!"

He pitched up off of the couch and tripped over one of the empty champagne bottles. Got a face full of dusty Oriental rug and an earful of Heckle and Jeckle yukking it up, mocking his pain or whatever, and that was just about all he could take of that.

He hopped up and swung his way through the kitchen, threw himself at the front door, and staggered onto the porch. Slammed the door.

It was quiet. Quiet and cold. Sharp. One of those nights where you could feel the holidays pressing against your skin, waiting to get in.

Dean wanted to buy a tree. Sam claimed he was allergic. Cas was nonplussed.

Fine. Whatever. Fine. Dean'd buy a fucking tree tomorrow. Have it set up for Bobby when he got back.

He dug his cigarettes from their hiding place under the stoop and took a long, hot drag.

It was kind of great, the perfect burn against the bubbles in his throat, the sweet slip of champagne on his tongue.

The stars were high and bright, blazing away thousands of years in the past and that always fucked with Dean's brain a little, that whole space-time-distance bullshit. He stepped out into the yard and tried to count the blinks, got lost in the swimmy overhead of his brain.

He was drunk. It was awesome.

He took his time, smoked his way through two and half before he got cold, before the filters started to shiver in his hand.

He crushed the butts under his boot. Didn't bother to bury them. Just tossed the pack in the direction of the stoop and made for the warm of the fireplace, the curl of Sam's back, the heavy sweetness of Cas' hip against his own.

He fogged his way past the refrigerator before he heard it.

Somebody had found the remote, apparently, because Bond was blasting, battering his way in under a curtain of bullets and bangs.

But Sam was louder. Always was, when he'd been drinking.

He was smothering Cas, a big gangly afghan pulled tight around the angel's shoulders. Cas was petting his face with one hand and guiding his hips with the other, and Sam was down with that. Hell, if his lack of volume control was any indication, he was bordering on fucking ecstatic.

Dean leaned against the door frame, half hidden in shadow, and watched.

Sam had Cas' head tipped back over the arm of the sofa and was feeding him fast, sloppy kisses, lots of long slow tongue and lips going everywhere. Cas got two fingers into Sam's belt and yanked, got Sam into a rhythm that said fuck, that said now, that said why the hell are we still wearing pants?

And Sam must have found just the right angle because Cas moaned, this sound that sank into the floorboards and shivered its way up Dean's cock.

Sam made this triumphant noise and lifted his head, threw all his kinetic energy into his hips.

"Yeah," he breathed into Cas' face. "Yeah, Cas. You like that, huh?"

"No--shit--" Cas managed, his angel voice cracked and reedy. Kind of Dean's favorite sound in the world, right there. Followed by Sam's sex snarl, all low and Barry White-like and such a fucking cliche that when Dean wasn't turned on six ways to Sunday he found it hilarious, a surefire way to get Sam's goat, but now, oh, now that he was lit up and stupid and ready to fuck, it was pretty much perfect.

"Mmmm," Sam growled, his voice rolling over a hail of bullets. "That's good, Cas. You're so good, baby. That's right."

Cas' hands shot up under Sam's shirt, tugging, and Sam got the message. Reared up and pulled, yanked Cas up and ripped, until they were skin-to-skin from the waist up and melded together from the waist down, denim digging one into the other, this twine of blue stark against the worn redbrown of the couch and damn if they weren't beautiful, together. Cas' nails in Sam's back, right above his belt. The curve of Sam's spine as he dug his hips in, made Cas cry out, drove a groan out of his own gut. Worked his mouth over Cas' jaw, made a beeline for the hollow of his throat.

It was gorgeous and gentle and bordering on rabid, the way they moved together, the way they sighed, the harmonies they spun one from the other even as Sam's leg shot out, sent their glasses and the last of the champagne flying off the coffee table, even as Cas snorted and shot his hands into Sam's hair, pulled his head up and kissed him, Sam's hips still working, Cas' body still shaking, and Dean's cock really fucking tired of being on the sidelines.

He dropped his shirt and killed the sound before he put his hand on Sam's back, slid it up between his shoulders and stroked. Scritched his fingers through Cas' hair. Held them together even as they tried to reach him.

He held what he loved in his hands until his heart was full.

Then Sam sat up and Cas grabbed his belt and they both kissed him, their lips chasing each others' between his legs, their cocks finding their way full and in to his body, holding him between them like some dark precious thing, something to be cherished and fucked and made utterly, completely whole.

When they breathed his name, soft dark in unison, he came. For himself. For them both.

All over the goddamn couch.

When he came to, Bond was flipping Pussy in the hay.

They were a pile of wet hot crazy surrounded by broken glass, Cas flung over Dean's chest, Sam buried beneath them both, snoring and drooling on Dean's ankle.

Awesome.

He shifted, tried to sit up, but Cas clung to him, sleepy and sweet. So he gave up. Draped an arm around Cas' shoulders and cupped his other hand over Sam's knee. 

Cas snuggled in, pushed his mouth into the curve of Dean's neck.

And huffed.

"You've been smoking," he murmured.

Dean grinned and squeezed his shoulder.

"After all this, you're gonna bitch about me smoking?" he said, his lips in Cas' hair.

"Yes," Cas said gravely. "You're defiling your body, Dean."

Dean snorted. "Go to sleep, Cas."

"Mmm," Cas sighed. 

Dean closed his eyes and found sleep lurking beneath a fake duck and wearing a white tuxedo.

**Author's Note:**

> For jackhawksmoor, by way of saying thanks.


End file.
